


Giving Signs Behind the Plate

by Ellerigby13



Series: Darcy Lewis Bingo 2020 [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Writers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:14:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29565252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellerigby13/pseuds/Ellerigby13
Summary: A year after her husband's death, writer Darcy Lewis is doing her best to manage life as a single mother in the middle of San Francisco, finding a way to get back on her feet as a writer, a widow, a woman.  Opportunity knocks when a famous catcher needs his memoir written.Steve "The Captain" Rogers, meanwhile, is on the tail end of his illustrious Major League Baseball career, attempting to keep himself relevant after the end of his ten-year contract with the Mets.  In a city he doesn't know, on a team where he's not the top dog, he's doing what he can just to stay afloat.  He could use a friend.
Relationships: Darcy Lewis & Original Female Character(s), Darcy Lewis/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers
Series: Darcy Lewis Bingo 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1851811
Comments: 58
Kudos: 113





	1. i. play ball

**Author's Note:**

> Hi I don't know what I'm doing. This fic was probably a long time coming, and while I'm no expert on the MLB, I've got enough general knowledge of baseball to get us through the factual stuff without too much confusion. All research is done through Google.
> 
> I hope you enjoy???
> 
> P.S. This was started before WandaVision came out, so Darcy and Maria are the same generation rather than Darcy and Monica.
> 
> This chapter fits the Darcy Lewis Bingo for Square Y5: "Single Parent Darcy Lewis."

_ I carry along a feel of unease _ _   
_ _ I want to belong like the birds in the trees _ _   
_ _ I sit on my own, look over the town _ _   
_ _ The skyscrapers glow like they’ll never fall down _ _   
_ _ \- Orange Trees, MARINA _

_ Let’s play ball _ _   
_ _ Shootin’ down the walls, yeah _ _   
_ _ Let’s play ball, baby _ _   
_ _ Battin’ down the stalls _ _   
_ _ Play, play, play ball _ _   
_ _ \- Play Ball, AC/DC _

  1. play ball



As if the universe needed an excuse to be cruel, Quentin looked more and more like her father everyday.

Even now, her small, squishy body making its way across the field to inspect what was going on with the dark-haired woman in the green canvas jacket dotted with clunky metal pins, Darcy’s daughter lifting her face up in wonder at the soapy swirling bubbles above her head echoed Julian, the shape of a ‘wow’ twisting through her lips. Darcy had seen that look on her husband more times than she could count.

Q glanced at her mother over her shoulder, blue eyes wide and full of light. “Momma, I can go see?”

Darcy smiled back. “Yeah, baby. Go check it out.”

This was the kind of thing Julian especially loved when they spent an afternoon at a park, especially at Golden Gate. Every vendor with a cart who passed, he’d buy something from. Every big band jazz group performing for no one in particular, he’d stop to watch. If he’d been here to see a woman with half her head shaved blowing bubbles the size of his toddler daughter, Darcy was sure he’d go running toward her at Q’s side, gently lifting a hand toward the shapes but never getting close enough to pop them.

Hard to believe that it had already been a year since the accident.

Her phone buzzing in her pocket roused her from what was slowly devolving into a pity party. The screen read in big blocky letters: MARIA R. AGENT. Darcy let her eyes flicker back toward Quentin, who was jumping and grabbing at the bubbles, now accompanied by the bubble lady’s wiener dog, and swiped across the “answer” button.

“Darcy!” Maria Rambeau said warmly. It took a second to realize that they hadn’t spoken on the phone in months. “I’m so sorry we haven’t had a proper call sooner, I’ve missed you. How are you doing? Do you have a minute?”

“Hey Maria. I’m okay, I missed you, too.” Her daughter squealed with delight, the little dog had jumped up onto his hind legs and was attempting to lick at her face. “Q and I are on a mommy-daughter date to Golden Gate. Everything okay on your end?”

“Shoot, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you.” Her voice flickered toward that soft sympathy that had gotten all too familiar the last twelve months. Maria, unlike most others, at least hadn’t been prone to treating her with kid gloves. “I just - we can schedule a time to chat soon, but there’s something I wanted to bring to you. A pretty sweet gig.”

Something hopeful rose in Darcy’s chest, brushing up against the lanky ginger-shaped hole in her heart. Her finger found a loose thread at the hem of her pants and started unspooling. “A ‘pretty sweet’ gig? As opposed to a regular gig? Do tell, boss.”

“Pays well. Big client. Mostly local, if you don’t mind crossing the Bay Bridge a few times a week.” She could hear Maria suck in a deep breath, a smile in her voice, like she was building up to the best part. “Penguin’s looking for someone to write Steve ‘The Captain’ Rogers’s memoir, and the gal I talked to named you specifically.”

She froze, eyes locked on her little girl halfway across the field. There was no way she’d heard correctly. Steve Rogers? Golden boy of the New York Mets Steve Rogers? “Steve Rogers needs a memoir and someone asked you for me specifically?”

“Somebody at Penguin caught wind you used to do some sports writing, thought you’d be a good fit. I guess they’ve been trying to get him to do a book deal for a while now, but he wasn’t ready to commit until...now, apparently.”

His second five-year contract with the Mets had finally ended in the summer, her dad had made sure to remind her every time they spoke on the phone back then. It was the first time that Steve Rogers would be a free agent in years, and despite all the talk of him retiring this year, he’d assured most of the reporters at ESPN that he was still on the market, that he’d be working out in anticipation of a signing deal before spring training. She vaguely remembered her dad opining over the phone about him being signed maybe to the Rangers, or the Mariners, or if luck would have it, the Phillies, so he could finally watch The Captain catch a home game. If she took this deal - if she was even  _ right _ for this deal - he would lose his fucking mind.

“I know it’s a lot,” Maria was saying, hints of sympathy still edging into her voice, “with just you and Q these days, but apparently he’s been reading up on you” (reading up on her? The Captain of Major League Baseball had been reading up on  _ her? _ ) “and he told his agent to tell me to tell you that he’s  _ loved _ the pieces you did for the New Yorker this year. They’ve been trying to get someone on his memoir for the last two years. You believe that?”

_ You’d have to be crazy not to take it _ , was probably what Maria wanted to tell her, and she was right. Darcy and Q couldn’t live forever on opinion pieces and the odd teaching gig, and there was no guarantee something this big would just fall into her lap again. No matter how good a writer she was.

She looked at her little girl, giggling and jumping and playing, her eyes alight, like she had no idea her father had been gone a year today. For Quentin, it was almost like there was only here, only now. Only what was right in front of her.

“Maria, I - ”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to decide right away. I know this is a big decision, and...fuck, I’m so sorry just dropping this on you today of all days, it’s just - ”

“I’ll do it.”

The line went silent. Darcy had to glance down at her screen just to make sure Maria was still on the call. When she lifted it back to her ear, her agent was only slightly incredulous: “You - you will?”

She inhaled deep and yanked hard on the string near the end of her pants, splitting the thread. “I’ve got a creative writing class at San Francisco State I’ll have to work it around, but...yeah. It sounds good.”

Quentin came bounding over, giggling, her hands covered in shiny soapy water. “Mommy, lookit I did!”

She dropped her phone to her shoulder, letting a faint smile pull on her lips. “That’s pretty cool, baby. You have fun with the bubble lady?”

“Uh-huh.” In true preschool-age fashion, Q peeked to her side, lifting a pointed finger toward the playground down the small dirt path. “We can go swing, Mommy? Please?”

Her big eyes shone with earnestness. Darcy felt her smile stretch wider, and pushed up from the bench where she’d been sitting, wincing at the splinters that had dug into the backs of her thighs, and let her daughter lead the way.

“ - can let you go, but I’ll email you his agent’s information, the pitch from Penguin, all the shit they’re looking for,” Maria had been rattling off, when Darcy brought her phone back to her ear. “God. Congrats, Darce. Love you. Talk soon.”

“Love you, too, Maria.”

The whole playground smelled too strongly of tanbark, but Q found her favorite seat as per usual at the far end of the swings, already kicking her jelly-shoed feet by the time that Darcy could catch up. “This one, Mommy, okay?”

“Okay, baby, okay,” Darcy laughed, stuffing her phone back into her pocket. The swing chains clinked near the top as she wrapped her hands around them, pulling back and pushing gently forward so Q could climb the air as high as she wanted.

It had felt like an eternity since she’d written anything other than motherhood, grief, or feminism, let alone sports. Q usually kept Darcy’s hands pretty full, and while she had established herself as more than another mommy blog before Julian’s accident, writing on the plights of raising a preschooler was about as much as her brain could handle since then. And now…

“Higher, Mommy, higher!” Q giggled. She pumped her pudgy little legs, squeals soaring through the air before her on the way up, following her on the way down.

God, she was beautiful. How was it she had helped make something, someone, so beautiful?

Darcy closed her eyes, inhaling the tanbark, the thin winter sun beaming through green-brown grass, her daughter’s sudsy hands, the rusty jingling of the chains against the top of the swings. All that mattered was only here, only now.

Only what was right in front of her.

* * *

“What the fuck…” Darcy breathed, trying not to look like a complete greenhorn walking into the lobby of the posh apartment complex that apparently was Steve Rogers’s new home. Maria stood at her side doing better at suppressing her grin, a hand on Darcy’s shoulder.

“I know...fuckin’ athletes.”

The Captain’s agent had gotten back to her remarkably quickly, setting up a meeting for them within the week. He was too high-profile to meet on some public corner in the light of day, it would’ve been like asking Tom Brady to Starbucks, but she’d interviewed plenty of quasi-celebrities in her day, outside of their homes. Inviting her here felt like...a test.

“Good morning,” chirped the receptionist, tucking her smooth blonde bangs behind her ear. “Your name and name of who you’re visiting?”

Darcy fumbled for her ID in her wallet. Maria deftly withdrew her own license from hers. “Um, Darcy Lewis? I was told we were expected…”

The receptionist’s mouth formed a small, perfect ‘o,’ her fingers clacking reflexively on her keyboard. Whatever sat on the screen in front of her filled her cheeks with color. “Miss Lewis, Miss Rambeau. You  _ are _ expected. Just a moment, please…” Like her life depended on it, she ripped off a small pink sticky note and carefully scratched out her message with a pen wrapped in green tape at the end of a fabric sunflower. “This is the apartment you’re looking for, elevators are behind the waterfall to your left. Here is your keycard - ” She slid a little plastic sheet across the counter with the note attached. “ - since Ms. Romanoff has informed me that we’ll be seeing more of you, it’ll get you access to the building with your _ host’s advance approval _ .” The last part she stage-whispered, as if they were in on some fun little secret.

Darcy cleared her throat, forcing a smile. “Thank you. Kathryn,” she rushed, registering the shiny gold nameplate pinned to her chest. “I - we appreciate it.”

“Indeed we do,” Maria chuckled and looped her arm through Darcy’s. “C’mon, slick, we’ve got business to talk.”

Somehow the lobby even  _ smelled _ like money, fresh and modern and new, very unlike the all-American Brooklyn beginnings the Captain had allegedly come from. She felt like she was dirtying the place, even in the nicest pantsuit and loafers she owned.

“‘We’ll be seeing more of you’?” Darcy allowed herself to loosen up only slightly once they’d gotten to the elevator, her elbow resting against the cool metal of the railing. “It sounds like his mind’s made up about me.”

Maria cracked a grin. “That should be a good thing, right?”

“Who says my mind is made up about him?” Above their heads, the shiny golden floor numbers ticked upward, upward. She could feel her heart hammering, the hairs on her arms standing up against her blazer. “I don’t know, M, something about this feels...weird. Like they’re playing games with me.”

“Darce, if you want out…”

“I don’t,” she said automatically, with no inclination of whether she meant it. “This all just doesn’t feel...very Steve Rogers.” She gestured to the polished marble floors, the golden accents, the high-tech elevator buttons. “I don’t know, he seems more...brick and mortar, dim lighting, ‘where everybody knows your name.’”

“He’s one of the highest paid baseball players in the league, Darcy,” Maria reminded patiently, pushing her sleeves up to her elbows. “If you’ve got ‘fuck you’ money, you might as well use it somewhere nice.”

_ I guess _ . If she had ‘fuck you’ money, she’d buy a little place that was more library than house, maybe an apartment on top of the best Thai joint in town, help her parents take an early retirement, and then squirrel away most of that cash into a trust for Quentin, in case she wanted to go to college a hundred times over.

But Steve Rogers was a bachelor. No kids to speak of (that anybody knew about, anyway), no family to claim, except for his childhood friend Bucky ‘Southpaw’ Barnes. Barnes didn’t need to be shared with; with the salary he made starting for the Dodgers, Darcy suspected he did just fine.

The elevator dinged. Top floor, apartment 1808, according to the graceful print on the sticky note. Pristine white, gilded gold, perfectly potted ferns that allowed no speck of dirt to invade the flawless plains of marble beneath them. Did these people have their shoes cleaned before they stepped foot into the building?

Maria offered a gentle smile. “Last chance to turn back.”

_ Breathe _ . “We’ve got this.”

“Ms. Lewis, Ms. Rambeau,” greeted the sultry voice of Rogers’s agent Natasha Romanoff, opening the door before Darcy could even lift her hand to knock. She was shorter than Darcy had imagined, but no less intimidating, half-smirking up at them under a thick pile of flaming red hair and the most precise cat-eye in all of the Bay Area. “Natasha. Lovely to meet you both. Please, come in.”

The penthouse apartment had an interior design nearly identical to the rest of the building, modern but simplistic, dark finishing to the furniture. Hanging plants dotted the walls, and the wide open windows cast a pleasant bit of sunlight across the entry. It was perfectly nice. Stylish, impersonal, a little cold...but nice enough.

And there, the crown of the home, sat Steve ‘The Captain’ Rogers, at the black leather sectional couch in the living room, his huge body looking entirely out of place here. Unlike Natasha, he was even taller than Darcy had imagined, dark honey hair swept back, a tight gray henley and jeans accentuating the muscular build the professional catcher had had to cultivate over the last ten years and more.

He stood when he saw her, smiling, but it seemed oddly like he was trying his best not to take up too much space in his own home.

“Miss Lewis,” he said, thrusting a hand between them. Darcy took it and shook - she tried and failed not to notice how warm and calloused it was at once, or how big, how it enveloped hers.

“Mr. Rogers,” she returned, keeping her voice as even as she could. Up close, his eyes were blue flecked with green, as warm as his hands, but filled with...uncertainty.

“Just - just Steve, please.”

“Just Darcy, then.”

Maria cleared her throat from beside her, her agent smile plastered across her lips. “Steve. Maria Rambeau, Darcy’s agent. We’re very excited to meet you both.”

“The feeling’s mutual.” So he said, but for someone who had allegedly read up on her and enjoyed her work, his voice was awfully strained. “Please, um...have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea...vodka?”

“A cup of tea sounds just fine,” Maria answered diplomatically, sliding into the corner part of the sectional like she belonged there more than the rest of them. Darcy followed with some hesitation.

“Water would be good. Please.”

As Steve made his way toward the open concept kitchen, Natasha found her place in the luxurious looking armchair opposite them, propping a large notebook up in her lap. “Before we get started, I just wanted to thank you both for being here. I know you’re both busy with children at home, and as professionals, you’re certain to have a lot on your plate.”

Steve’s large hand brushed hers handing Darcy the water she’d requested, one cold droplet of perspiration rolling down her index finger. Against her better judgment, she looked him in the eye to say ‘thank you,’ a flush flooding her cheeks. The corners of his mouth twitched up into a smile, and he was only a little pink when returning the ‘you’re welcome.’

“Monica Rambeau does her best to add to my plate, that’s for damn sure,” Maria was saying, full of charisma, and Darcy had to quelch the disappointment brewing in her stomach as Steve turned back toward the kitchen to take the whistling kettle off the stove.

“I can imagine - she’s in the...seventh grade now? I think I saw in your Instagram?” Natasha lifted a dark mug of her own to her lips, her perfect smile curving around the rim while she sipped politely from whatever it was inside.

“That’s right...man, middle schoolers are something  _ else _ .”

Darcy forced a smile, slowly feeling more and more like who  _ she’d _ been in middle school, the dorky, chubby girl with overdeveloped breasts and glasses that made her look some kind of weird de-aged grandmother. “I got cornered by middle schoolers once waiting for BART. Weird shit.”

“Cornered?” Natasha repeated, her head cocking to the side. “Jesus, that sounds terrifying.”

“It was super weird. They kept asking what I was looking at on my phone, whether I was looking at porn…” Would they even want her to write this book if she kept opening her mouth and letting this utter drivel spill out? “I mean, I remember being an awkward middle schooler, but not as bold as the way these kids are comin’ out.”

“I get you,” Natasha said, surprising Darcy completely. This beautiful sprite of a woman could relate to her? She looked like she’d never been awkward a day in her life. “I remember how middle school was supposed to be this weird, painful, strange time when everybody smelled bad and drew dicks on things, but kids these days have YouTube tutorials to make them look pretty and smell good, so they feel empowered to unleash their weirdness on us instead of each other.”

Steve set Monica’s steaming mug of tea in front of her, shifting it toward her on its wooden coaster. Darcy watched her lift her expert smile toward him, the picture of diplomacy. She knew she’d never be able to cut it as an agent, her heart perpetually on her sleeve, her writer’s spirit radiating from every inch of her body. Maria could keep it cool, speak ten steps ahead, assess what was a good idea, what was in her best interest, tell someone to fuck off and they’d thank her.

Darcy wasn’t half as strong.

“So…” Steve began, folding himself into a spot on the other end of the sectional. “...thank you both for being here.”

_ Yeah, Natasha said that already. _

“Um…” He cleared his throat, smoothing his hands against his jeans. “I don’t really know how to - I should probably know how to deal with the press at this point, but I don’t really...like talking to the press? But...you, Miss Lewis, what I’ve read that you’ve written - I mean, your pieces you’ve done for  _ Ms.  _ magazine, that editorial you did on grief for  _ The New Yorker _ .” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his throat - she could tell he wanted to apologize for her loss, bring up Julian, open up all the wounds she’d worked so hard to sew shut.

“Thank you,” she whispered hurriedly, grabbing for her glass of water.  _ Change the subject, change the subject. _

“You’re a lot smarter than I am.” He said it as quick as she’d thanked him, his teeth baring down on his lower lip. “Is what I learned. Is what I’m trying to say. I...I don’t know that I’m really ready to have my ‘story told,’” he raised his eyebrows at the last two words, “but if I am, I don’t think anybody could tell it like you could, Miss Lewis.”

Her cheeks went hot. She weighed the words on her tongue, the ones that threatened to dance off the edge with or without her. The ones she’d been trying to say since she set foot in the building. “Mr. Rogers - Steve - I am incredibly flattered that you think I’m the person for this job.” Natasha was looking at her now, her pout squeezing together tight. “I can’t write your story if you don’t trust me, though.”

“I’m sorry?” Natasha started, leaning forward, but Steve held up a hand, his gaze prompting Darcy to continue.

“The apartment. The drinks, the cryptic emails, the receptionist in the lobby…” When she put her drink down it made an unbecoming clink, not bothering with her coaster. “I get professionalism and confidentiality and everything, but if this is some kind of a test, all this, I’d like you both to know that I’m not interested in playing games. Tell me what you want me to do, pay me fairly, and I’ll do it. But enough of this weird...” She gestured at the air in general around her, unsure how exactly she meant to end. “...shit.”

A beat passed.

Steve spoke with his gaze aimed into his hands. “Nat, Ms. Rambeau, could you give us a moment?”

Natasha got to her feet first, laying her notebook and her mug on the coffee table. “Maria, I guess I’ll...show you the patio.”

The look in her agent’s eyes asked whether this was okay, whether  _ she _ was okay. Darcy swallowed and gave her slightest nod.

Once the two of them were gone, Steve pushed against the couch, putting some room between himself and Darcy. “This is Natasha’s apartment. I moved into a one-bedroom in Oakland when I signed with the A’s, I don’t like this - ” He cleared his throat again, raking his fingers through his beard. “She’s more suited to the high profile life than I am. She told me this would be a good neutral space to see if you were right for the job, see how you reacted to the pomp and circumstance.”

Her blood was working toward a boil. They had been testing her. Why, then? To prove her worth? To make sure she was good enough for some fucking athlete?

“And I passed your test?” she said, letting the venom seep unabashedly into her voice. “I’m worthy of writing the memoir for the great Steve Rogers?”

“No,” he stammered, the muscles in those massive shoulders tensing. “No, it’s not like that, I - Natasha was worried. I had my mind made up, I wanted to work with you, but...I’m stupid trusting, and I’ve been fucked over before. She wanted to look out for me. Make sure you were...in this for the right reasons.” His face had gone flushed, red all the way to the tips of his ears. “She’s been fucked over before, too. She’s just also a hell of a lot smarter than I am.”

“Jesus, Steve, we’ve all been fucked over at one point or another, we’re in the entertainment industry for God’s sake.” She traced lines in the condensation on her glass with the tip of her thumb. “If you want this, if you want me to do this for you...I’m not playing games with you. You treat me like a fucking adult, you tell me the truth about what you want to do and how you want to do it. We can find some other neutral place to meet, but…” She folded her hands in her lap, straightening up as tall as she could. “If you respect me as a person and as a writer, I’m gonna need you to fuckin’ act like it.”

Approximately five minutes later, Maria watched over her shoulder as Darcy dragged her pen down the list of terms on the contract Natasha and the rep from Penguin had drafted. Pay was...outrageously sexy, publicity looked fine, anticipated meeting hours made sense.

“Season tickets?” she asked with some layer of surprise, fingering that small line of text. “For...all the home games this season?”

“Your choice, club suite or bleachers.” Natasha leaned back into her armchair and crossed one leg over the other. “Two tickets to each game. Thought it’d be a good opportunity for you and your little girl.”

It still felt oddly personal anytime someone from work mentioned Quentin, outside of Maria. Still, she could imagine Q either bouncing off the walls or dying of boredom in the club suite; in the bleachers they could get a hot dog, sing ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame’ with the other fans. “Bleachers, I think.”

“I’ll get it done. We’d also like to fly the two of you out for a few spring training games. Two weekends, if that works for your schedule.” Natasha had a gift for disguising questions as statements.

“Okay,” Darcy said, and scratched out her initials next to the rest of the open spots on the page. “And the book tour…”

“Begins in the winter. We’re thinking a pre-holiday release, so Steve can catch his breath after the season and so Quentin doesn’t need to take any time off school.”

She glanced at Steve, who was running a hand over the back of his neck, looking almost as exhausted as she felt. He offered her a small smile, small but warm.

“Okay,” she breathed, once the last of the pages was signed. Her name, the date, Steve’s signature, neat looping cursive just beneath hers. “That’s it, then?”

“That’s it,” he said, and took the contract back from her. They stood at the same time, Maria and Natasha a beat behind, but that small warm smile hadn’t left Steve’s handsome face, and he didn’t turn it away from Darcy once. “I’ll meet you on Thursday? Jack London Square?”

“Sounds great.” She held her hand out to him to shake one last time today, still only a fraction of his height at her tallest. She returned his smile, hoping it came out with as much warmth as his hand around hers, his kind face beaming down toward her.

That was it, then. She was writing the good Captain’s memoir.

Fuck.


	2. ii. on deck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mia theorizes what Steve Rogers’ life would be like if he were the baseball equivalent to Tom Brady, but single and not Trumpy. Also, Steve loves his best friend Bucky very much.

_ For the moment, but you know me _ _  
_ _ You know how I get when I’m lonely _ _  
_ _ And I think about you and the moments _ _  
_ _ But everything you do is so Oakland, so _ _  
_ _ Oakland _ _  
_ _ \- III. Telegraph Ave., Childish Gambino & Lloyd _

_ And even if I’m there, they’lll all imply _ _  
_ _ That I might not last the day _ _  
_ _ And then you call me and it’s not so bad _ _  
_ _ It’s not so bad _ _  
_ _ \- Thank You, Dido _

* * *

Steve didn’t release the breath he was holding until he was positive Darcy and Maria had made their way down the hall and into the elevator, but he couldn’t hear shit once they’d shut Nat’s front door behind them.

“Think that went well, huh?” Nat said casually, folding herself into her comfortable spot on the armchair and replacing her notebook with her sleek work laptop. “She agreed. Signed the contract and everything.”

He couldn’t get that picture of her out of his head - lips pursed, brows drawn, her fists shoved against those flared hips - he had researched her plenty, sure, gone into her articles, the ones from  _ Ms. _ and  _ The New Yorker _ and  _ Jezebel _ , scanned through the pictures of her with her late husband, the poet, and her tiny, adorable daughter that was somehow a spitting image of both of them, and still she was nothing like he’d expected. She knew enough about him because she was smart, she’d done her own research, but in person, Darcy Lewis was calculated enough and ballsy enough to sit on the information she needed until he needed to be told off.

“I think we picked the right person for the job,” he answered at last, rubbing the sweat from his hands on his jeans as he pushed off from the indent he’d been leaving in the couch. “She’s smart, and sharp, and...principled…”

Nat didn’t look up from her screen, tapping away at the buttons on her keyboard. “And precisely your type. Dark hair, curves like a Coke bottle, tragic backstory, looks damn good in bright lipstick.”

Steve felt the heat flood his cheeks in spite of himself. “C’mon, Romanoff, I’m not an animal.”

“Oh,  _ I _ know you’re not, Steve,” she said, putting on the kind version of her agent voice. “But you’re gonna need to be prepared for how the public is going to see it. Per  _ your  _ request, nobody knows you’re working on a memoir outside of us and the publishers, so I want you to have your wits about you when people start speculating about the cute little brunette you’re suddenly running around with.”

As usual, Nat was about twenty steps ahead of him. She peeked at him over the top of her laptop, only a sliver of her clever, dark-lined eyes from between the strands of vibrant red hair. “I’ve been in this business a while, Steve. It’s my job to look after you. Your image. Your brand.” Her nails clicked against her keyboard. “Speaking of which, you’ve got the Under Armour shoot tomorrow to advertise your Captain line. I’ll text you the address in the morning, but you’ll want to be in the vicinity of the Haight by nine o’clock.”

“You won’t be joining us?”

“I do have other clients, you know. Special as you may be, Rogers.” She flashed her mischievous smile at him, closing her laptop with a note of finality. Steve took the hint and made his way toward the foyer, reaching for his jacket from the coat rack by the front door. “You’ll be fine. And you’ll be fine with Lewis when you meet this week, okay?”

He raised his eyebrows, a smirk of his own crawling its way up his face. “This the part where you tell me to just be myself?”

Nat rolled her eyes. “Get out of my apartment, dweeb. I’ll call you after you meet with her.”

He took the long way back to his studio, dropping by the Thai place a few blocks down the road for a tub of the coconut chicken soup he’d already had twice this week. His building sat in a relatively quiet neighborhood between Uptown and West Oakland - he’d only been there the last month or so, but the neighbors he had met were kind, good people who cared for one another. Nobody talked or acted any rougher than the folks he knew back in Brooklyn, and for the most part they let him keep to himself.

Steve waited to turn his phone off Do Not Disturb until after he’d cracked open his tom kha, the first flurry of texts rolling in one after the other, predictably, from Bucky.

_ Hey punk _

_ Howd the meeting go _

_ Tasha said you picked a writer _

_ Call me when your in _

He muted the Netflix docuseries about hip hop artists from the 90s and tapped the phone icon next to Bucky’s name.

“Stevie, what the fuck is up?” Bucky’s voice was high, a little distant, like he’d put the phone on speaker while he was doing something else. He felt farther away than he’d been in years. “Natasha said you picked somebody?”

“Uh, yeah,” he coughed, straightening, and put down his soup. Put down his fucking soup? Fuck, when had he become a grandma? “Yeah, that writer, Darcy Lewis? The, um...the single mom writer?”

“Darcy Lewis, Darcy Lewis,” Buck echoed. It was like Steve could hear him pacing, unsure of what to do with the information, unsure if he’d ever heard that name or bothered to remember if Steve  _ had  _ mentioned it before. From Bucky’s end he could hear the short finger-taps of him looking her up. “Yeah? It go well?”

“Yeah.” There was a dark ring forming on the coffee table, probably from those cappuccinos that Charlotte Liu from downstairs made perfectly, the ones Steve ordered every morning against his better judgment and against the bathroom scale that kept telling him he shouldn’t. He rubbed his finger hard against one of them, knowing it wouldn’t do anything. “We’re gonna talk on Thursday. She’s...she was nice.”

“Filler,” Bucky said, like a reflex. “Nice is easy. You’ve been picky as fuck with this thing, what makes Darcy Lewis right for it?”

“I don’t know.” She’d read him his rights? Didn’t take his shit or Natasha’s? “It’s just one of those things, I just...I got a feeling.”

“Articulate as ever, Stevie. You likin’ the Bay Area so far? Thank fuck it’s Oakland, if you’da signed with the Giants I don’t know if I could ever be seen in public with you again.” The familiar Brooklyn accent was weaving in and out, like he’d been drinking. Steve wouldn’t blame him if he had, Bucky was a hot commodity these days.

“Yeah, Oakland’s nice. Look, I don’t wanna keep you - ”

“Hey, you kiddin’ me? I’m always happy to get a call from your ugly mug. Seems like a lifetime we’ve been on opposite coastlines.” There was a rustle in the background, he might have been settling in. “You doin’ okay? I wish I...I’m sorry I didn’t help you move in.”

“No, Buck, don’t - don’t worry about it.” He cleared his throat, toeing out of the sneakers that Natasha had recommended he wear today. He couldn’t decide if her particularity was just her being savvy to the job, a sixth sense about how to make a first impression, or some layer of control that helped her teach Steve to play the part of the Captain. “It wasn’t hard, I ain’t got much. I’m just glad things are...solid.”

The chaos of being let go in New York bleeding into the chaos of picking up and moving across the country to train with a team that hadn’t seen a World Series in decades. He had a feeling that things wouldn’t truly feel solid in a long time.

“Me too,” Buck was saying, half in a sigh. “Been a while since you had some peace, huh?”

“Can say that again.” He closed his eyes, pushing his fingers into his lids, the electric blue shapes seeming to buzz through to his bones. “Fuck, when did we get so old?”

“We’ve  _ been  _ old, punk. I just...wear it better.” There was a smile in his best friend’s voice, but still he sounded almost as tired as Steve felt. “You doin’ okay otherwise? Got a chance to set up...you know, somebody new to see out on the West Coast?”

Steve felt the tingling prickles of guilt climb up the back of his neck. No, he hadn’t gotten a chance to consult with a new therapist, or find a new group to attend some afternoon in some church or gymnasium at the edge of the city. Even Curt, the guy that ran the group he’d left in Brooklyn, had offered to hook him up with a new VFW chapter on the West Coast. Seemed like everyone had his plans lined up except him.

“Not yet,” was what he ended up telling Bucky, making a mental note to email Curt as soon as he was off the phone. “You still meeting with your group?”

“As much as I can. Coach’s got me on a pretty tight leash with the call for pitchers and catchers coming up here. Season’s sneakin’ up on us, Stevie.”

Steve cracked a smile; he was scheduled to meet the rest of the starters, the relief, the other catchers later this week. Spring training would be underway soon, and then he and his best friend would finally be in the same zip code again. He would be back behind the plate again, where things made sense.

“I think you’re the first team on our schedule for spring training. Ready to get your ass whooped like usual?”

“What usual?” Bucky snorted, and Steve could hear him scratching at his stubble through the phone. “I seem to remember a couple strikeouts in the book last time the Mets played the Dodgers…”

“Oh, the one where Morita had to relieve your ass in the third inning?” Steve grinned, running a hand back through his hair. “How you gonna make up for those strikeouts now he’s retired, Buck?”

It was good to hear his friend laugh, even from miles and miles away, really laugh. Almost like it had been back when they were kids, or in the sparse moments they  _ could  _ laugh on base, or on deployment. In the almost thirty-seven years he’d had on this planet, Bucky’d been a constant.

“Fuck off, punk,” Bucky chuckled, which told Steve he didn’t have a rebuttal, he’d won this one at least. “We’ll see if you put your money where your mouth is in a few weeks, huh?”

“Lookin’ forward to it, jerk. Hey, I’m gonna let you go - I got an Under Armour shoot in the morning, should probably get some rest. Thanks for, uh…” He bit his lip, glancing toward the few decorations he’d set up around his little apartment, the framed photos on the wall of his ma, him and Buck on their first Little League team, a few of the sketches he’d done at the tail end of his time at art school. “...thanks for buggin’ me to call you. It was good to hear from you.”

“Yeah, of course,” Bucky said, like that was all there was to it. “We’ll talk again soon, yeah?”

“Of course. I’ll see you soon.”

“See you soon, Stevie.”

He tapped the little red hang-up button, Bucky’s contact image - a shot Steve’d captured the night he told him he was signing with the Dodgers, when he’d taken Buck out to their favorite little dive on the south end of Brooklyn, where the beer was cheap and the pool tables always free - flashing and then flickering off the screen. As usual, Bucky always seemed on the up-and-up, dealing with every hand life dealt him somehow a million times better than Steve ever could.

Steve ignored the silent music videos playing through the documentary on the TV as he made his way to the bathroom to clean up for the night. He ignored his shoes left between the couch and the coffee table, the drained tub of soup, the light he was leaving on in the kitchen.

He ignored the empty apartment altogether, and went to bed.

* * *

“What do you think about Kendall Jenner?” the girl from the shoot, Cassandra, asked him from the seat opposite the breakfast bar with her nose buried in her phone.

Steve’s head ached; he wanted to say that of all he’d seen of Kendall Jenner, she reminded him a little bit of those worms from the Men in Black series, perpetually shiny and shaped like one long tube. In fairness, all the Kardashians seemed to have been made in a lab to him, he wasn’t exactly the leading expert in fashion or beauty or whatever women thought they should look like these days. Women like Cassandra picked  _ him  _ up, he didn’t go looking.

“Don’t know enough about her to form an opinion,” he said instead, pouring them each a cup of coffee. 

He was surprised that she’d stayed the whole night, having expected her to slip immediately back into the sleek dark dress and high heels she’d worn to the bar the previous night, the one she’d invited him to at the end of the shoot with Under Armour. Most model types that took an interest in him lost that interest shortly after taking him home.

“Mm.” It seemed that Cassandra had likewise lost interest relatively quickly, now that she had more important matters to attend to. Still, she took the coffee, sipping at it black. “I just got the text that I’m shooting with her next week. Looks like it’ll be a liquid diet, so I don’t look like a fucking elephant next to her.”

He lifted an eyebrow at her already trim frame, the one he’d gotten so intimately acquainted with the night before. He’d never understand the modeling business. “You know you’re - ”

“Fine the way I am?” She set her phone down, surveying him through her pretty, almond-shaped eyes.

Heat crawled up the back of his neck. “I was going to say ‘beautiful,’ but sure.”

She smiled, pushing off the barstool and leaving her coffee only half-drunk on the counter. “You know how it is in show business, Captain. Our bodies are hot commodities.”

He knew she was right, the first thing springing to mind how much Bucky’d insured his left arm for. How much he himself had put into each leg, each arm, his catcher’s body. “You heading out?”

“Mhm,” she hummed, slipping her phone into her purse and sliding her feet back into her pumps. “I think you said last night you had plans today, too?”

“Yeah. Couple of interviews, and then some work with the team later today.” He dumped the dregs of her mug into the sink before escorting her to the door, opening it for her and waiting to see if she’d lift her arms to him for a hug or a kiss to the cheek.

She didn’t do either, a demure and professional smile rising to her lips as she passed him through the threshold. Steve couldn’t help but let himself feel a little relieved; that at least meant that she wouldn’t expect him to call anytime soon, or vice versa. “Sounds good. See you around, Cap.”

“Take care, Cassandra.”

Once the door was closed behind her, he let out a sigh, flicking his wrist up so his smartwatch would flash the time. There was still a little while before his lunch meeting with Darcy, enough time to get cleaned up and coach himself on how carefully he could speak to present himself decently for the memoir. The night he’d talked with Bucky, she’d emailed him a list of possible questions, so he could have some expectation of what to talk about when they met. It looked pretty standard for a memoir lineup: bring some childhood stories he hadn’t told to other outlets, be ready to talk about the stint in art school, his time in the Army, what it was like being picked up by the Mets.

He expected that she might ask him about Bucky, or about Peggy, who hadn’t crossed his mind since the day he’d left Brooklyn, when he’d run into her and Daniel at the bodega for his last bodega breakfast sandwich. To her credit, Peggy had tried to subdue her excitement showing him the fat jewel on her left hand, and to his, he’d mustered up as genuine a smile as he could at the pair of them, his congratulations honest.

Well, shit. If she did ask about Peggy, he’d have to do what he could to be honest in being happy for her, but Darcy was a writer - and from what he’d gathered the other day, she could pick up on chinks in his armor a mile away.

He showered, trimmed his beard, and put some oil on it to keep it from scratching. The weather app on his phone called for a jacket over his usual henley, and per Natasha’s request, he pulled a nondescript baseball cap low over his eyes before leaving.

Not that he figured it would do much. The neighbors were mostly kind enough to pretend not to know him (outside of the occasional kid who’d ask him to sign their baseball or their jersey when they caught him in the hallway), but without a doubt when he was out in the open in Jack London Square, all two hundred thirty-odd pounds of him, strangers were likely to take notice.

Darcy was waiting for him in front of the restaurant they’d agreed on, an upscale pizza place on the waterfront that, for some reason, had more salads on the menu than types of pizza. He felt an apprehensive smile pull on the corners of his lips, lifting a hand to wave hello.

The first stupid thought that came to mind was that she looked pretty: she’d subbed out the pantsuit from the other day for a chunky gray sweater that looked maybe a size too big for her, the sleeves dangling past her fingertips, a pair of dark skinny jeans, and worn looking pink sneakers. She smiled back when she spotted him, those blue eyes coming to life from behind the black frames of her glasses.

“Hey,” she said when he was close enough, shifting her weight slightly from foot to foot, like she was unsure whether she was allowed to shake his hand or hug him as a greeting. “So, not great news: this place - ” She gestured with her thumb at the restaurant behind her “ - apparently gets super crackin’ around lunch, so there’s a forty-five minute wait right now. I put my name in for a table, but if you were really hungry, I was thinking we could walk to this little deli Maria recommended a couple blocks away.”

He opened his mouth to tell her either would be fine, but was interrupted by the mighty grumble his stomach gave. Darcy’s smile spread wide. “Deli sounds good.”

Angelo’s wasn’t far, giving them the brief opportunity to exchange small talk, for him to ask after her daughter and for her to ask how he was liking the Bay Area so far.

“Better Thai food than I could find in Brooklyn,” he admitted, “off the record, that is.”

She let him open the door for her, the smell of cured meats and fresh bread rushing out to greet them at the threshold. There were a few customers milling around the store part of the deli, but it wasn’t nearly as crowded as the restaurants on the waterfront.

“Wow.” Darcy looked around with wonder, and Steve had a hard time not matching her smile, not noticing the fire of life that had sparked in her eyes the moment she’d walked in. “Good call, Maria.”

“Absolutely.” The menu was dashed across a whiteboard behind the counter, the marker chipping around the edges like it had been written there for years already. He caught the aroma of pastrami wafting from the kitchen, and his stomach groaned again.

Ten minutes later, he was eating probably the best sandwich the planet had ever produced, making noises that no man should make in public, seated on a bench next to the woman who was going to record his life story and hopefully keep him relevant for the next few years. Nothing mattered, though, but the pastrami that he was shoveling into his mouth, and his slowly filling stomach.

Thankfully, Darcy seemed to be just as preoccupied with the sandwich she’d ordered. “Oh my  _ God _ , that’s good.” When he surfaced from the sandwich wrapper to look at her at last, the edges of her mouth had been smudged red, marinara dripping off her fingers. “Haven’t had a meatball sub in  _ years _ .”

Come to think of it, he probably hadn’t had a pastrami in that long either. It felt oddly homey, sitting here on a bench in the city, eating a fuckin’ sandwich with somebody who knew about the industry but still seemed...normal.

“Sorry, I know I look like a damn caveman,” he mumbled after the final gulp of his final bite. “You really haven’t been to this place before?”

Darcy shook her head, folding away the second half of her sandwich for later. “No, but I’m legit angry that Maria never mentioned it to me before, ‘cause I’m  _ definitely _ coming back.”

“Same. Hard same.” Steve crumpled his empty wrapper, fighting off the urge to pick the leftover mustard from the creases in the paper, and tossed it into the nearest garbage can. He took a sip from the water bottle he’d nearly forgotten in between them. “Well, I think I’m ready when you are.”

Darcy reached into the small purse at her side and produced a very used-looking tape recorder with an old school black and white label printed across the top and extending around the sides. From here he could see PROPERTY OF DARCY LEWIS AD - and that was it, her husband’s last name half-lost around the corner. Professionally, he knew she still went by Darcy Lewis, but everyone who knew her work knew Julian Adler, the poet who’d been featured in  _ The New Yorker _ right out of college. Steve had read what she’d written about him since his death, but broaching the topic out loud was another thing entirely.

“I’m a little old-fashioned,” she said, catching him looking at her tape recorder. “This is how I do most of my interviews. Okay by you?”

“Perfect. Shoot.”

She clicked the record button, and he watched the tape inside come to life. “This is Darcy Lewis, recording our super secret memoir with Steve today, January 29th. The time is…” She peeked at her watch, eyelashes nearly touching the lens of her glasses. “12:08 pm. We can go as long as you’re comfortable,” she added, glancing up at him this time with a small smile.

He smiled back. “What do you wanna go over first?”

“Well, we’re starting this process with you heading off to spring training in a few weeks. I’ve been wondering if time has been moving pretty fast for you, ending your contract in New York, signing with the A’s, relocating and everything.”

It wasn’t a direct question, but very refreshing compared to the number of times he’d been asked what the difference was like between his home and Oakland the last few days. “It, uh...does seem like kind of a whirlwind. I’ve spent most of my life in New York, in Brooklyn, and all the change lately...I feel a little bit like a fish outta water.”

“Are you feeling any of that East Coast-West Coast tension yet? What is it, ‘East Coasters are kind but not nice, West Coasters are nice but not kind’?”

“I don’t know that I should answer that in public, in Oakland,” he chuckled, his eyes briefly grazing the street around them. A few kids, might have been around college age, were a little ways up the sidewalk, playing music from a speaker, and a couple of homeless folks were slapping high fives in front of a vacant storefront, the large red FOR RENT sign splashed in the window. Nobody was paying them too much mind. “But the West Coast isn’t bad. Weather’s very different this time of year from the East Coast.”

Darcy grinned. “I get you. I’m from Philly originally.”

“No kiddin’. I guess I can’t hold it against ya.” She smiled at his dumb joke about the Mets’ longtime rival, but didn’t offer anything else, so he continued, “Yeah, I don’t think I can remember the last time I woke up on a January morning and it was sixty by lunchtime. But, uh, back to your question, so far, everyone I’ve met around here has been both. Kind and nice.”

“That must be nice,” she said, folding her legs to sit criss-cross on the bench, her elbows leaning into her thighs. “Having friendly faces around in a completely new environment.”

He scratched at the back of his neck. “It was easier than I thought it’d be. Not knowing anybody out here, apart from Natasha. I’m okay at bein’ lonely.”

Once the word had left his mouth, he knew it had been the wrong choice. Most people said they were okay with being alone, or used to being alone, or that being alone suited them. No one was suited to being lonely.

Darcy let him pause, her face still cautious and kind behind her glasses. To his surprise, she clicked the recorder off. “Okay, I know this is coming unsolicited, but I’m gonna go out on a limb here - aren’t you, possibly, the most famous guy in Major League Baseball? You don’t...have anybody?”

His face tingled with heat. Why’d he have to bungle that? “Famous doesn’t mean everyone is my friend. I’ve got Bucky, but he’s...you know, being famous in LA.”

“Still, you’ve been in the game a long time. There have to be guys you played with who got traded or ended up around these parts at some point.”

That was part of the problem. Sure, his career had been long, ten years with the New York Mets and a year and a half with Syracuse before that. But most of the guys he’d played with in his early days had been much better than him, much more experienced, had retired to hometowns and Little League dugouts, the ones who’d seemed to mentor him going on to coach third base in Houston or Tampa. At the tail end of his career, he felt like a rookie all over again. 

It could have been ungrateful, not wanting to meet with the few old horses who’d reached out through email to grab a coffee with him now that he was in California, but mostly he was afraid that he’d never know what to say. He was supposed to be this force of nature, three rings under his belt, after all. 

Sometimes he was still that scrawny kid from Brooklyn, fighting eyes and no fists to match. 

“Off the record,” he began, shuffling his heel against the pavement beneath them, “I might have guys like that, at some point, who I should probably get in touch with. I just...worry I’m underwhelming.”

Darcy bit her lip, studying him, as if she regretted pushing him on it at all. Something softened in her face, and as he realized how big he must have seemed compared to her, how small and soft she was, underwhelming was not the word she would have picked to describe him.

He was thankful when she clicked the tape back on, glancing back at her notes, and started, “You mentioned Bucky Barnes, starting pitcher for LA…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the way this is written very much makes it seem like a Stucky fic, and I want you to know that even when Steve isn’t gay for Bucky, he’s super gay for Bucky.  
> I love you, let me know what you think 💚


	3. iii. three up, three down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Darcy interviews a familiar face, and Steve needs a ride back from the stadium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably a filler, so please be gentle. I still hope you enjoy.

_ And the wounded skies above _ _   
_ _ Say it's much, too much, too late _ _   
_ _ Well maybe we should all _ _   
_ _ Be praying for time _ _   
_ _ \- Praying for Time, George Michael _

_ But we’re not friends _ _   
_ _ And we’re not lovers _ _   
_ _ We’re just trouble _ _   
_ _ \- Tempt My Trouble, Bishop Briggs _

* * *

Darcy’s plane got in too late for her to catch any of Steve’s games on Thursday, but he wasn’t scheduled to play until the late afternoon the following day, and the Phillies - the team she’d still held some loyalty to, after all these years - had the day off. She’d reached out to an old teammate of his, Timothy “Dum-Dum” Dugan, who’d retired three years into Steve’s first stint with the Mets, for an interview, and he’d invited her and Quentin to the ranch house he shared with his wife Emma and their four daughters a few miles outside Mesa. 

When they arrived at the hotel, Q passed out about as soon as her tiny body had hit the king-sized bed in the room Natasha booked them. Darcy smiled at her daughter’s snoring form, half-dead on her feet as well, and quickly tapped out a text to Steve to let him know that she’d gotten in okay.

He responded quickly:  _ Glad to hear it. Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. _

Despite her best efforts, something light and airy fluttered in her chest. They’d met a half a dozen times since the first interview, sometimes at her favorite taqueria in the Mission (incidentally, most San Franciscans had more to worry about than a three-time World Series winner waltzing while they ordered horchata), sometimes at his favorite Thai joint or coffee shop a few blocks from his apartment.

It was hard not to be attracted to him; apart from the handsome face and the Dorito-shaped torso that had landed him a spot on the Under Armour billboard a few miles down the freeway, Steve seemed to be naturally kind. He would only grudgingly accept her offer to pay for coffee every other time they met, asked about Quentin regularly, never failed to tell her something that he liked about each outfit, and, maybe the worst of all, smiled at all of the terrible dorky jokes she made.

Attraction was fine, she told herself, unpacking her toiletries as quietly as she could and shuffling toward the bathroom to get ready to turn in for the night. Besides, who wouldn’t be attracted to Steve? He was a hell of a catch, with or without the Captain title.

She combed out the knots that had accumulated in her hair during the flight and brushed her teeth, doing her best not to notice what seemed to be a new wrinkle that pronounced itself in her forehead when she lifted her brows. The dark circles under her eyes also begged to be seen, but she kept scrubbing at her gumline, too tired to care anymore.

Of all the reasons she and Steve could absolutely never be a thing, how attractive he might find her was relatively low on the list.

Her wedding ring sparkled in the mirror.

Quentin was snoring as loud as ever when Darcy shut the bathroom door behind her - for such a small body, Q was capable of making a  _ hell _ of a lot of noise. Darcy knew she was already conked, but pressed a kiss to her forehead anyway with a whispered, “I love you,” before lying back and letting herself fall into darkness the moment her head hit the pillow.

They slept so well, in fact, that the next morning Darcy had to rush her half-drowsy girl out of her pajamas and into her favorite My Little Pony dress twenty minutes later than she had planned.

“Momma,” Quentin whined, her limbs flopping heavily like a ragdoll’s while Darcy strapped her into her carseat. “I’m  _ hungry _ .”

“I know, baby. We’re gonna eat soon, though, when we get to Mr. Dugan’s house.”

Quentin’s little lip twisted into a pinched pout. “I don’t wanna wait to Mr. Dug-din’s house.”

“You can have a Cutie,” Darcy said sternly, digging through her purse for the little bag of oranges she’d stowed there somewhere, “but I don’t want your tummy too full when we get to Mr. Dugan’s house. Mrs. Dugan is gonna make us lunch.”

Q took the Cutie and scrabbled at the peel with her fingernails, managing not to lose her shit completely while Darcy tossed her bag in the passenger seat of the little Accord they’d rented and made her way behind the wheel. She felt a little haggard, stinky around the edges, the hotel soap from her five minute shower not sufficient to scrub away the grossness of the rush she felt she’d been working up the last twenty-four hours. If she was the praying type, she would have looked to the heavens for the hope that Dum-Dum would forgive her lack of professionalism.

When she pulled into the driveway at 107 West Llewellyn, the garage door rolled up before she could even put the car in park, and a mustached man in khakis, a white polo, and a signature blue-and-orange baseball cap came through it to greet her, grinning widely from under his mustache. Retirement was suiting Dum-Dum well.

“Miss Lewis,” he boomed, thrusting a massive mitt out for her to shake. “Good to finally meetcha. You need any help with the little one?”

She couldn’t help but smile back - the man was practically a six foot two teddy bear. “I think I got her. Your girls home, Mr. Dugan?”

“Only my youngest and my wife today, least till Maggie and the twins get off school,” he said proudly, before quickly adding, “and you can just call me Tim. Tim or ‘Dum-Dum,’ whatever feels right.”

Dum-Dum it was. Despite her hungry crankiness, Quentin let out a giggle when he removed his hat and bowed to her, reaching forward to shake her hand in turn and calling her ‘little lady.’ She took his hand right away, forgetting that he’d been going in for a shake, and tugged him toward the garage where he’d come from, her free thumb going instinctively into her mouth.

Darcy, all but forgotten, smiled, and followed.

For being a World Series-winning pitcher, Dum-Dum Dugan’s home life appeared to be startlingly normal. His house had a traditional ranch-style feel, complete with photos lining the walls in their rustic wooden frames, and a massive cuckoo clock that presided over the kitchen. His daughters ranged in age from fifteen down to five, which was evident of the mishmash of toys and clothes that hadn’t yet managed to find their way to a bin or hamper. The house was by no means a mess, but it was clearly lived-in, buzzing with activity.

Quentin immediately found a friend in his youngest daughter, Ruby, who only sent the new addition to her home one sidelong glance before making room at the dollhouse for Q to join her command of the ranks of Barbies and Paw Patrols and Jedi inside.

“Hi,” Emma said hurriedly, spotting Darcy from the kitchen, and rushed out from behind the island, hands brushing against her apron, to greet her face-to-face. “Darcy, so good to meet you. I’m so sorry about the mess - please, make yourself at home. Can I get you somethin’ to drink? Water, coffee, tea?”

She was very pretty, with a luscious blonde head of hair, and soft pink lipstick outlined by creases in her cheeks that told Darcy she had done her fair share of smiling. Drew Barrymore circa  _ 50 First Dates  _ came to mind.

“Your home is great,” Darcy assured her, but took the spot that was offered at their dining table, slinging her purse over the back of her chair. “Um, coffee would be really great.”

_ The home’s great, the coffee’s great, great, great, great. Get your shit together. _

Dum-Dum fell into the seat across from her, his huge hands enveloping his own cup of coffee, and stretched out his legs beneath the table, his back giving an audible crack. “Jesus, I’m gettin’ old.”

Darcy smiled, wanting to remind him that he was only ten years older than she was. “I’d tell you I feel your pain, but you’ve earned the miles on your engine quite a bit more than I have.”

Dum-Dum matched her smile with a good-natured grin, glancing toward where Quentin and Ruby were giving their dolls and figures high, squeaky voices and low, spooky ones. “You said you did a little bit of sports writing early on, that’s how Rogers came to find you for the job?”

“Yes.” Her face felt a little hot - since Natasha had brought up that Penguin was interested in her, for some reason, she hadn’t looked much into who had sent word along about her very limited sports writing experience. As she dug through her purse for her tape recorder, she explained, “Not a whole lot, though. I worked with the local papers back home, mostly, after I got out of college. Minor League ball, a few workshops the Flyers put on for kids in the area, couple of Eagles training camps.”

To her surprise, it was Emma who groaned, leaning over the table to place a steaming cup of coffee in front of Darcy. “Philly, Darcy? Tim, who the hell did you let into our house?”

Dum-Dum chuckled, the fine strawberry blond of his mustache bristling as he brought his mug to his lips. “I might disagree with your team of choice, but I understand repping your hometown. I’m a fifth-generation New Yorker myself. We split the time between here and the city, I know the girls like it here.”

Darcy could imagine; the heart of New York was a lot busier than this dirt road outside Mesa, where the girls had space to roam to their hearts’ content. Ruby and Quentin were giggling, one of them, probably Q, making a steady gurgling babble to imitate the toy tractor in her hands. Darcy caught the sight of Emma watching the girls from the kitchen, a tender smile playing across her lips.

“Well,” Dum-Dum said, after he let her have her moment with her little girl from across the room. “Lunch is almost ready. You want to get on the record before I forget myself with Em’s street corn pasta salad? She makes a  _ mean _ street corn pasta salad.”

Darcy’s stomach panged with hunger, but thankfully, unlike Steve’s, it stayed quiet enough for her to set up her tape recorder and notebook without much fuss.

“Tell me a little bit about your time on the team. You were scouted back in ninety-eight, right? Out of college ball?”

“That’s right, I’d signed with Vanderbilt right outta high school, and not halfway through the first semester junior year the agents came callin’. Took a couple years in the Minor Leagues, bouncing around North Carolina, Florida, Kansas City, and then…” He shrugged, eyes glinting with fondness, the memories playing behind them. “...signed to the team I’d wanted to be a part of since I was a kid.”

Quentin shrieked out a giggle, but that was both of the girls, dissolving into fits of tiny, high-pitched laughter. Dum-Dum paused his story, raising his eyebrows expectantly at Ruby in an expression that told her to keep it under control, and the giggling fits dropped a few decibels into whispers.

“You must’ve been on top of the world,” Darcy reminded him, getting them back on track. “Must’ve been really special.”

He told her about his early days, Emma returning to the table to drop off a basket of fresh, warm bread and a chunk of butter on a saucer. As he spoke he slid a pat of butter over a slice and passed it to her, and another that he handed to Quentin when she came bounding over, dolls forgotten, to plop herself into Darcy’s lap. “The thing about pitching is, it’s a hungry position. Major Leagues, you’re always hungry to get off the bench, to get called in. But with pitchers, a team’ll pick up twenty men who play the same position. Competition was always stiff, but at the same time you know your biggest competitor is you.”

Pitching was a lot like writing in that way. Writers were a dime a dozen, even the talented ones, but it was never enough to be better than anyone else. Rarely enough to be better than who you’d been before.

“Steve only got picked up a few years before I retired,” Dum-Dum prefaced, getting up to help Emma with the casserole dish and the salad bowl. Darcy went to help, too, but Emma shook her head before she could make her way out of the chair. “But he was a good catcher from the start. Had a good head about what pitch to call next, when his pitcher was runnin’ on fumes. A catcher has to be aware of the whole field, and if there’s something Steve Rogers has always been good at, it’s having his wits about him.”

There was a level of gravitas to his final statement, and Darcy swallowed the question bubbling on her lips. His awareness, his wits, likely had something to do with the war he’d left to jump into art school and from there, walked straight onto the field. She knew he had served in Iraq, but he didn’t talk about it. He was disciplined, and when she had asked him about his time, he’d smiled politely and said absolutely nothing but that he respected the men and women who he’d had the honor to serve with and was thankful to have given his service to his country.

Translation: something had happened during his time in the Army, and Steve was not interested in revisiting it. Not on the record, at least.

She didn’t broach that subject with Dum-Dum while they ate, choosing instead to ask Emma about what her time had been like on the road in the early days of Tim’s career and their relationship.

“We met in college,” she answered smoothly, clumping a small pile of pasta salad onto Quentin’s plate, then Ruby’s, followed by the Dino nuggets that had just come fresh out of the oven. “It was a nutrition class I had to take if I wanted to fill all my liberal arts requirements to teach daycare, and I had the misfortune of having a big, lanky loudmouth pick the seat right in front of mine in the lab.”

“I  _ invited  _ you to come sit next to me,” Dum-Dum replied, cutting up the honey garlic chicken that the adults were eating, and forked a piece under his mustache, humming with contentment as it hit his tastebuds. “Thought I was doing us both a favor, in case the cute little Nashville gal was gonna have trouble seeing the board over my shoulder.”

“You knew perfectly well I only came up to your chest, much less your shoulder.” Emma grinned into her next bite of salad. “We dated, on and off, for about a year before Tim got picked up by the minor leagues. But he was kind enough to ask me to be his girlfriend until after I’d graduated, and he was back in town in the off-season.”

College sweethearts. Darcy had a hard time not smiling, the way that Emma’s eyes glazed with the memories, her free hand thumbing over Ruby’s forehead to brush the tendrils of hair from her daughter’s face. The way that Dum-Dum watched them both, forgetting his food on the plate in front of him. Her heart twinged with loving envy. They were good for each other.

“Our first grown-up date,” Dum-Dum teased softly. “First time I could afford a place whose fanciest menu item wasn’t their milkshake.”

“You ordered the most expensive bottle of wine they had, and then you hated it.” Emma laughed, and wiped away the tears collecting at the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand. “God, it was so  _ you. _ ”

Dum-Dum squeezed her hand, smiling brightly from under his mustache. “I’m still having a hard time believing you’d put up with me all these years.”

“Four children later…”

“Like me!” Ruby chimed in, twisting around in her chair, strawberry blonde pigtails bouncing with life above her head. She seemed to be cramming nuggets into the gaps between the missing teeth at the front of her mouth - in fairness, Q was doing much the same, just with fewer missing teeth. “I’m your child!”

“That you are, baby,” Dum-Dum chuckled, shaking his head. “That you are.”

“She’s our first post-baseball baby, too. I thought it was a nightmare managing Maggie on the road, but then the twins came along and…” Emma blew out a rough breath, rolling her eyes. “That was the end of touring for me.”

Darcy had stalked their respective Instagrams, and the twins certainly seemed to be the handful Emma was referring to now, scrunched nose, freckled, consistently getting their hands dirty with Play-Doh and glitter - though she did appreciate that they’d been named Helena and Zoey, outside the hundreds of rhymed, alliterative, metered names people gave their twins these days.

“You ended up retiring not long after the twins were born, is that right?” Darcy asked, cutting up a slightly-too-big piece of broccoli on Quentin’s plate.

“That’s right,” Dum-Dum said and leaned back in his chair, satisfied. “I was gettin’ up there anyway. Couldn’t throw as fast as I used to, joints started creaking more than I liked. When it was time to go, it was time to go.”

Darcy decided to steer it back toward their original subject matter, glancing at the time left on this tape. “You weren’t much older than Steve is now, though. And catching is generally rougher on the body than pitching.”

“That’s true. But then, I never got to the kind of celebrity Steve Rogers has got.” There was a slightly self-deprecating tone to Dum-Dum’s voice, but his eyes told his good nature. “Ball was different from the beginning of my career to the beginning of his. These guys now, they’ve got the personal trainers, the nutritionists, a physical therapist at everyone’s locker. Careers last longer, and the guys only get ridden by their GMs when you’ve got a championship on the line, not every game everyday like it used to be.”

The nature of sports had changed in the last ten or twenty years, Darcy agreed. A pitcher or catcher could be pressured to take on one game after another after another, bearing down on mild injuries that turned into career-ending ones, as long as they were performing, even as recently as the early days of Dum-Dum’s MLB run. Now, though, with their bodies so valuable to the teams, the coaches, the managers, the owners, there had to be a sense of balance.

“You take the girls to spring training every season?” she heard herself asking, willing her mind away from all subjects surrounding Steve’s body. “I mean...you’re so close, I figured you must miss it.”

“I know some guys want to be done with the game once they feel like they’re done with the game,” he nodded, rubbing his knuckles at a spot under his chin. “But you’re right, it’s been a big part of my life for as long as I can remember, so yeah, when we’re out here, I try to get them to a couple games each season. They don’t love it the way I do…” His smile turned the tiniest bit wistful, eyes raking over his youngest daughter. “...but we still make a family day of it, when the time comes around. It’s been a tradition, where every season we get all the rookies on the field to sign a ball, and one day, when they’ve made it big, we can look at it and say, ‘remember that skinny kid, with the goofy swing? He’s MVP now, or he got the Golden Glove.’ Maybe someday, he gets into the Hall of Fame.”

Emma squeezed his hand. “You should show her your 2010 ball. From Maggie’s first time at spring training.”

Dum-Dum got up with a mighty grunt befitting a man about twice his age and retreated down the hallway behind the kitchen, returning a few moments later with a baseball in a plastic display case. He handed it to Darcy before he sat, tapping on the shiny surface.

“Check that out, see if you can find any familiar names.”

In blue and black and some red ink, the names of the rookies that season were mostly underdogs, players who had a few good seasons flying relatively under the radar, some who had gotten unlucky with injuries early in their careers, and a select few who’d made their mark in baseball since signing. Her father would be delighted to see Rocco Rampelli’s name scrawled wide under one of the seams, but she caught the signature she was clearly supposed to:  _ Steve Rogers _ , in dark blue ink, unassuming, squashed between two others.

“I wanna see, Momma,” Quentin whined, her bony butt digging into Darcy’s thighs while she ambled back into her lap to get a better look at the ball.

“You see that one?” Darcy pointed to the small squiggles of Steve’s S and R. “You remember Steve, Mommy’s baseball friend?”

Quentin giggled. “Steve has a funny beard.” He’d met Quentin only briefly, before one of their interviews at the coffee shop, and Q, having known very few adult men without clean-shaven chins, had pointed at her chin and exclaimed, “You’re  _ hairy! _ ” before Darcy could kiss her goodbye at Julian’s folks’ house in the Outer Richmond.

“One of these days, young lady, I’ll have to show you a picture of what he looked like with  _ no beard at all _ ,” Dum-Dum chuckled.

Darcy smiled. “You two have a day planned yet to take the girls to the ballpark?”

“Not yet.” Dum-Dum cleared their plates from the table. “But I was thinkin’ we should wait until your team and my team face off, Miss Lewis.”

He winked at her, and her smile split wide into a grin. “You’re on, Dugan. My dad’s coming out from Philly to meet us for that game.”

“The formidable Mr. Lewis,” Dum-Dum announced, and Darcy felt like she’d known him now long enough to know that it was with full honesty that he continued, “if he’s anything like you two young ladies, I’ll have my work cut out for me.”

* * *

They met Steve at the loading docks outside the stadium after the game, Quentin quickly losing steam after the excitement of the day. She’d spent half the game running up and down the stairs of their section of the park, the other half gorging herself on popcorn and ice cream, even when the sun had sunk below the horizon and Darcy had wrangled her into her favorite pink puff jacket. Now, though it was way past her bedtime, she had clung still to her mother’s leg while they met Steve to share a ride back to the hotel.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, almost reluctantly, falling into the squat Darcy had watched him in almost the entire game, his smile obviously tired but still completely genuine. Quentin toddled toward him, her thumb going instinctively to her mouth, and let him pick her up, hoisting her against his hip. “Did you have fun today?”

“Uh-huh,” Quentin mumbled through her thumb. “I got ice cream.”

“Ice cream?” Steve echoed, adding a veneer of excitement to his voice. “That sounds yummy. Did you save me some?”

Quentin giggled again, though it was clear she was fading, leaning her head to his shoulder. That had to be a trait she’d picked up from Julian, such ease with people she barely knew. Dum-Dum, his daughter, Steve. “No, it melted.”

“Aw, maybe next time,” he amended, finally meeting eyes with Darcy. And as shy as he’d been when they first met at Natasha’s apartment, she was jolted by the natural way he’d just...picked up her daughter. Like she belonged in his arms.

And jolted a little more by the way that it didn’t feel wrong.

“You have fun today, too?” he asked, a half-smile on while Darcy reached for her keys.

“I did. You did great out there,” she said, as if he needed her to tell him. He was close enough to smell like fresh shampoo and the thin layer of gel sweeping his hair back now that it was no longer covered by his green-and-gold cap, a black practice jersey straining against the broad stretch of his chest.

Where the fuck were her keys? She needed to get a new purse.

Still, he went a little pink at her compliment, ducking his head down to aim his smile at the pavement on their way toward the parking lot. “Spring training is always a good time. You see Altman field that line drive in the fourth?”

Teddy Altman, one of the rookies who’d soon earn his place on the leather of a ball Dugan and his kids would bring to the park when they came for their yearly visit, had gotten his chance to start at second base and, in a spectacular wave of pinstriped gray and green, dove across the field to snag a ball that was quickly whizzing toward center field for a third out. He’d emerged from the all-star play grinning and coated in red dirt. It was going to make the ESPN highlights tonight, undoubtedly.

“That play was awesome, but it’s not gonna get you out of taking the compliment.” She nudged him gently with her elbow, Q already conked out against him. That was another weird thing, that she had learned what she could joke with him about - that Steve Rogers would let her joke with him. “I met with Dugan earlier.”

“Dum-Dum.” He said it like a question, like she’d taken him by surprise. She hadn’t shared every last plan of hers for his memoir, but Natasha had provided her a list of former teammates who might be open to interviews. She assumed Steve had gone over it with her. “How is he?”

“Taking to dad life well. He’s bringing the girls out in a couple weeks, when the Mets play the Phillies.”

They reached the rental car, Darcy extracted Quentin from drooling on Steve’s neck to fasten her into her carseat, and he turned down the radio for her once she turned the key in the ignition. She had always been aware of how big he was, but it was almost comical to see his huge body stuffed into the passenger seat of a shitty little sedan.

“You can put the seat back,” she reminded him, glancing behind her to back out of the parking spot.

“Thanks.” He went quiet again, his right arm resting against the door, his left hand in his lap, like he wasn’t trying to crowd her over the center console. When she looked over at him, his eyes were pointed at the window, not quite looking through it and not quite looking at it.

She couldn’t blame him for wanting to retreat into silence for a bit. He’d been playing The Captain all day, taking pictures with fans before the game, signing gloves and balls and cards and t-shirts. On top of directing his pitchers and the rest of the players on the field during the game itself.

But then he surprised her, shifting his knees away from the door and finally settling into the seat with some air of relaxation. “You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

She’d been reaching toward the dial to fill the car with white noise other than the snoring of her child in the back seat. “Take you back to the hotel? Steve, it’s...not really that big of a deal.”

His fingers flexed against the handle of his door, knuckles rolling like centipede feet under his skin. Something told her he wasn’t talking about the ride. “You came all the way out here to help me with this book, you’re spending your time and money interviewing people I don’t...I don’t know well anymore, and you could’ve gone back to the hotel to put Quentin to bed, but you chose to - ”

“I chose to drive you to the hotel, which we are both staying at,” she bit out, knowing that he had a point, that her tiredness was creeping up the backs of her eyeballs, as if her need for sleep was peeling back her consciousness with needling fingertips. “Because I wanted to. Off the record, because outside of the memoir writing and shit, I figured that you’re a human being and maybe wanted a little time on your own, away from...all of it.”

He brought his hand off the door and back into his lap to fold it with the other one. And said nothing.

“I like being on the team,” he finally admitted, once the air had seemed to settle between them. “I really like it. Everyone is so...hopeful. And they’re all great, the coaches and everybody. I just...I’m comin’ into this on my own, and they look at me like I’ve been sent by New York to give the little guys a chance, but I feel like I’m at the end of my rope. And I feel alone, and I hate being alone, and I never feel more alone than when everybody  _ wants _ something from me.” He turned to her then, eyebrows raised with an air of sarcasm. “Off the record.”

Darcy looked out at the road in front of them glowing just slightly under the moon and the streetlights dotting each avenue from the field to the hotel, her daughter’s soft snores echoing in the backseat. She felt Steve shift next to her, craning his neck to glance back at her.

“All I want from you is what you asked me to do,” she said softly, eyes ahead. “Because for some reason you asked  _ me _ to, someone who hasn’t written about sports in  _ years _ , and I’ve needed something like this to keep me from…”

What? Drowning in her grief? Losing all semblance of herself in being a widow, a single mom?

“From getting lost in the everything.” When she looked back at him, he was frowning at the road ahead of them, too. Lips set in a firm, thin line, eyebrows drawn tight together.

“Yeah.” Darcy inhaled deeply, rolling her palms over the fake leather of the steering wheel to flex her wrists. “Yeah, from getting lost in the everything.” A grim smile pulled on her lips. “Jesus Christ, Rogers, we should probably be in therapy.”

“You’re probably right.”

She pulled into a parking spot near the back of the hotel, and Steve let her disentangle Quentin from her carseat, his hands shoved in his pockets. He looked about as tired as she felt, circles growing under his eyes, but he waited to walk her at least from the parking lot into the back door.

“Are you up for an on-the-record talk tomorrow?” he asked, surprising her, as he held the door open into the back corridor. “There’s a breakfast place I like a little ways from the park...my treat, if you and Q want to come.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that would be nice.” He pressed a knuckle to the elevator call button before she could reach for it. “I’ll meet you in the lobby? Is nine too late? Q kinda likes her beauty sleep.”

Steve chuckled a little, not following her into the elevator when the doors opened up for them. “I’ll see you at nine, Darcy. Sleep tight.”

“You, too, Steve.”

When she got up to the room, she tucked Quentin in and fell into the seat at the little desk by the window, flipping her laptop open and plugging her headphones into the tape recorder. She tried to write about the way Dugan only had kind things to say about Steve, the sweetness of his relationship with Emma, the way he noticed Steve’s talent from the beginning of the latter’s career.

But all she could think of was the rookie ball, the innocent plastic case that felt somehow both so light and so heavy in her hands, the scribbled names of boys barely out of high school when they’d joined the major leagues, the men who had walked onto a field hoping and praying that they would stand a chance next to kids who had been bred for the sport.

She thought of Steve fresh-faced out of his Army days, so good at commanding the field he couldn’t help but command a diamond. And now, Steve on a team that needed him badly, unsure that he could be everything they thought he was.

Like a rookie all over again, lost in the everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think? I adore you <3


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